


True Love

by KLStarre



Category: Cinderella (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, F/F, Fairy Tale Retellings, Lesbian Character, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9586676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLStarre/pseuds/KLStarre
Summary: You've been tired of being a princess since stepping foot through the castle doors.





	

            You move into the palace, and the first thing you do, even before you unpack what little you own, is change your name. _Cinderella_ is a remnant of a history that you would rather leave behind, thank you very much, and you’re starting a new life anyway, so why not a new name?

            Briefly, you consider going back to Ella, like your mother used to call you, but even that name has been tainted by the past. Eventually, you settle on Isra. _Freedom_ , in Turkish, the language in which your father used to sing to you as you fell asleep. He said it reminded him of home, and to you, that feels fitting. You haven’t been home in such a long time.

            When you tell Prince Charming your decision, he smiles vacantly, and nods, and it suddenly occurs to you that you’re not sure if he ever knew you as Cinderella. You had met at the ball, of course, but he only knew you by the size of your feet, and you’ve barely spoken since. Upon coming to this realization, you make your hurried excuses and run, making sure to keep your shoes on your feet as you disappear into the sixth courtyard on the right, third floor. So far, you haven’t met anyone else here, so you can sit by the fountain and think in peace.

            On the one hand, you are happy. Happy that you have escaped your stepmother and her horrible children, happy that you don’t have to really explain anything to your fiancé, happy that you live in a palace with your true love.

            But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Is he your true love? He didn’t even know your name, and, yeah, of course you’ve heard all the stories about love at first sight, about not even needing to talk. But shouldn’t he want to? Isn’t that the point of true love? Shouldn’t he want to spend time with you, and see you, and learn about you, and care that you’re changing your name and moving forward and that this is a big step for you, dammit?

            You trail your finger through the water of the fountain and it is cold and you are lonely.

            It is cold, and you are lonely, but you do not shiver and you do not cry and you do not speak. You have weathered worse than this, and it’s probably your fault, anyway. You probably haven’t been friendly enough, or kind enough, or useful enough.

            You sit by the fountain for a long time, losing track of the seconds as you watch your reflection ripple every time a leaf lands in the water. It is not reverie, because you are not thinking any more, but you still feel interrupted when the door that you had thought belonged to you opens and a woman steps through, wearing the kind of voluminous dress that all the women at the palace wear, and that you haven’t gotten used to yet.

            “Ah,” she says, before you can speak. “I’m sorry to bother you, I was just coming to feed the fish. No one else does, you know, and somehow they assume that they’ll just survive on their own.”

            She is taller than you, and dark-skinned, and beautiful, and something about her nose and the set of her eyes reminds you of your prince. You expect her to turn and go, because that is what everyone does. _I’m so sorry, Your Highness, I’ll leave you in peace,_ they say, or _Princess, please forgive me,_ followed by a curtsey so deep that it makes you wince to watch.

            But she doesn’t. Instead, she closes the door behind her, pulling her skirts through and into the courtyard before they get caught. You don’t know what to say, so you simply watch as she walks to the side of the pond opposite you, skirts making it look like is gliding. Her hair is pulled back into a pouf, and in contrast to the formality of her attire, her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows.

            Despite the fact that you have yet to say a word to her, the knot in your chest loosens, and you watch as she feeds the fish that you hadn’t noticed in your days of coming here. Eventually, she finishes, and she looks at you with a half-smile that shows that she has a chipped front tooth. “Cinderella, right?”

            “Oh. Yes,” you say, a little bit saddened by the break in the comforting silence. “But I’m…I think I’m changing my name. To Isra. It- it’s Turkish, like my dad, and it means freedom, and Cinderella was what my stepmother called me, anyway, so –” You cut yourself off, but not before you feel the blood rush to your face. You know that there are people who babble when they are nervous, but you had never been one of them; you are used to always being nervous, and babbling can get you noticed, when you don’t want to be. Maybe, you think, in the second where you wait for her to respond, you just want this woman to notice you.

            Her half smile turns to a full smile, and you mirror it, because that is what you’ve learned to do, and but also because, honestly, you kind of feel like smiling right now, for the first time since the ball. “That makes sense,” she says, as if it really does. “Pleased to meet you, Isra. I’m Dianne, and you look lonely.”

            You talk for a long time after that, until you’ve lost track of time and the clock tolls midnight.

 

            That night (or morning, now, you suppose), you lie in your bed, alone, because your Prince stays in the royal wing, and no one had thought that he would actually choose a bride at the ball, so arrangements to add a bed in the wing for you hadn’t been made. After all, you’re not allowed to share until joined by the holy bonds of matrimony, or whatever. If he really cared, he could have come to your room, or made an exception to let you into his, before the marriage. But he doesn’t, really. You’re just another responsibility for him to check off his to-do list.

            You don’t know if you want to go through with the wedding.

            But that’s not what you’re thinking about, not really. It should be, of course, because it could change your entire future, but the thing that’s swimming in your mind is her face, _Dianne’s_ face, and you drift off imagining her smile.

           

            It is another three days before you see the Prince again, and in that period you have seen Dianne five times, spending nights in libraries and secret passageways and unoccupied ballrooms. You pass in one of the hallways – no, corridors, in a palace they are _corridors_ , but he is in a rush and doesn’t acknowledge your words of greeting. Behind him, though, is the Queen, and you are not foolish enough to think you will be able to avoid speaking with her. So you curtsey, bowing your head, and when you look up, her face is steely.

            “I hear you’ve been spending time with my daughter,” she says, her voice perfectly level, and not to be insubordinate, but you really have no idea what on earth she is talking about. You don’t say anything, though, and so she must read your confusion on your face, because she softens a bit. “Dianne. She’s the Prince’s younger sister.”

            “Oh,” you say, because what else is there to say?

            “Well, I guess it’s nothing serious, then, if she didn’t even tell you who she was,” says the Queen, smiling maternally. “Just be careful. You have my son’s reputation to consider, after all.”

            You stand there, dumbstruck, as she sweeps away, and then you run, run to your courtyard, hiking up the dress that you are slowly becoming accustomed to. Dianne is there, when you open the door, and in fact she is so much there that you collide with her. She is on her way out, but her skirts overbalance her, and she trips backward, grabbing at your sleeve in panic, and pulling you down with her. You land on top of her, and quickly roll away, trying not to think about how warm she is, and how she smells like the flowers that grow on the trees lining the courtyard. “I’m sorry,” you say, as soon as you can speak, because she hasn’t stood up yet and your anger is momentarily overwhelmed with a fear that you _injured_ her, and you can feel her shaking next to you and you panic, your breaths coming faster, before realizing that she is laughing.

            As soon as you realize it, she turns on her side to face you, and your faces are closer than you’ve ever been with your Prince, even at the ball, that first night.

            You have kissed girls before, but you were punished for it, and anyway, this is not a kiss, right now. Somehow, it feels more intimate than kissing ever could. You stare at each other, and you blink first, and when you open your eyes, she is still there. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a princess?” you ask, because if you don’t now, you never will.

            She winces. “How did you find out?”

            “The Queen confronted me about us spending time together. Dammit, Dianne, I’m engaged to your _brother._ Do you know what that means?”

            “That’s why I didn’t tell you,” she says, sounding desperate. “I don’t know. I assumed you knew, and then it became clear that you didn’t, and it just…I wanted to get to know you as myself. Not as Princess Dianne III, second in line to the throne.”

            You roll onto your back. You can’t look at her while you do this. It is hard enough as it is. “We can’t do this anymore, Dianne. I can’t…he’s my true love, you know? And I can’t give that up for whatever this is.”

            “Him? Your true love? Are you out of your mind? Isra, he’s only engaged to you to keep our mother off his back. He couldn’t care less about who you spend time with, and from what I’ve heard, he expects the same lack of consideration from you.”

            You know she’s telling the truth. You know she is. But he came to the ball for you, not just once but three nights running, and mobilized the entire palace to find you, and you guess it’s just hard to believe that he could have lost interest so quickly.

            Dianne interprets your silence, says, “Listen, there’s a ball, tonight. I know he hasn’t asked you. Come with me, and you’ll see.”

            It’s a bad idea, and there is no way that it will end well, but you have never wanted anything more than you want her in this moment. So you say yes. You smile. You try to put him out of your mind, and even though it should, you are too overwhelmed for it to occur to you to worry about the Queen.

 

            The ball is exquisite, a masquerade just like the one at which you and your Prince met. This time, though, you are in pink, and you recognize the woman you are there to dance with immediately. You gravitate towards each other, and as you dance together, the music seems to crescendo, your hand on Dianne’s waist, and Dianne’s on your shoulder, as you press together and twirl and dip, your skirts blending and pulling apart as the night goes on. You catch yourself looking at the clock tower, once, checking for midnight, but Dianne cups your face in your hand and turns it to look at her. “You don’t have to be afraid, anymore,” she says, and you can’t quite smile because the moment is made of glass, but then the music begins again and you are twirling and spinning and waltzing and – kissing, her lips against yours, in a way that your Prince never bothered to do.

            It is perfect, until it isn’t. The music cuts off, and you pull apart, aware that something is very, very wrong. Around you, the other couples are pulling away, leaving a ring of empty space between the two of you, but you barely even notice. Your vision is focused on the Queen, striding towards you, wearing gold and silver and righteous anger.

            “What,” she says, when she reaches you, “is the meaning of this?”

            Dianne reaches for your hand, but you pull away. You can feel your palms sweating and your heart racing, and you are suddenly painfully aware of a strand of hair that has come loose and is stuck to the side of your face.

            “It’s my fault,” says Dianne, stepping forward. “I convinced her that no harm would be done. I was wrong.”

            “Clearly,” says the Queen, disdainfully. “She is _engaged_. To succeed me. Or, anyway, she _was._ ”

            “What do you mean she _was?”_ asks Dianne, and your mouth is dry and you cannot speak. “She hasn’t done anything that he hasn’t.”

            The Queen continues as if Dianne hadn’t said anything. “Cinderella, you are no longer welcome in this palace. You have the night to collect yourself, and then I expect you to be gone by the time I awake.”

            Despite everything, you almost expect your Prince to appear, to defend you, to do _anything_. But nothing is done.

            In a haze, you leave the ball, barely noticing the nobility parting before you like you are Moses and the plague all at once. You have little to pack, only a single glass slipper and the dress of a servant, and so you spend the night lying in bed, staring at the too-tall ceiling, trying to breathe.

            Dawn breaks, and you walk through the corridors to the portcullis that you entered not so long ago. You will have to return to your stepmother, or be alone once more. You’re not sure which is worse. Your feet are bare as you step outside the gate, and you wave goodbye to the guards as you walk away, resigning yourself to being Cinderella once more.

            “Wait!” calls a voice behind you, a voice you know, and you turn around to see that behind you is Dianne, a pack on her back, running towards you. You stand still, shocked, not able to believe your own eyes until she reaches you, panting. “Hello,” she says, as if this happens every day.

            “You don’t have to do this,” you say, and then instantly regret it, because what if that’s exactly what she was waiting to hear?

            “I’m tired of being a princess,” she says, and you can’t disagree. You’ve been tired of being a princess since stepping foot through the castle doors. “Let’s go on an adventure.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my creative writing dual enrollment class, and I turn it in in a couple days, so feedback would be appreciated.


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